


Snow

by pdorkaa



Series: readers [8]
Category: Assassin's Creed - All Media Types
Genre: Assassin's Creed III, Assassins vs. Templars, Betrayal, Canon-Typical Violence, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Eventual Smut, F/M, Hope, Hurt/Comfort, Period-Typical Racism, Slow Build, Templars, Violence, Winter
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-03-09
Updated: 2017-03-10
Packaged: 2018-10-01 18:05:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,005
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10195817
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pdorkaa/pseuds/pdorkaa
Summary: It was the time of blood spilt on sparkling snow, it was the time of grand encounters and grand realisations.It was the first time you met him, Achilles Davenport's heir, the Native boy.Is not related to any of the other works in this series.





	1. Prelude

**Author's Note:**

> so, i'm going for a "reader's affiliated with the Templars, but when they betray her, and Connor saves her, she starts to see things in a different light" thing. lots of inner turmoil ahead, yay!

Snowing has a beautiful rhythm. The slow, lilting way of flakes descending, filling the air slowly creates a sense of peace and silence, just as a melody could. The flakes keep on drifting downwards, until there remains only a beautiful picture thoroughly laced with white satin. They dance around, lifting a little, only to keep falling to the ground. They dance, stretching against the great skies, they dance against the backdrop of the heavy sheets of grey clouds.

The forest, too, is calm - only a few leftover leaves scratch against the tree barks when the wind picks up. The creatures of the forest, the deer, the foxes are all silent, leaving only slight indents as they glide on top of the deep snow. At times, an eagle's mighty screech reaches the valley and reverberates between the hills. The snowflakes keep falling; winter pulls its blanket over this corner of the world. Branches, trunks, rocks and mountains sleep now under a layer of thick snow.

This winter, this one in particular, was different.

This was the turning point of your life.

It happened fast, so fast you couldn't realise it was about to happen; two figures zipping through the trees, one chasing and one chased.

And when you fell, the chase ended - when your skin and flesh were pierced by a bullet first and then a sharp blade, you lost consciousness.

The lifeblood kept flowing out from your wound, drenching your hands, your clothes, the sparkling snow a deep red.

In the distance, a wolf howled.

You closed your eyes, snowflakes settled on your lashes as you gave in to the alluring promise of blissful sleep.

You never heard the approaching danger, the paws of the approaching wolf - for this wolf had two legs and two hands, moving across the snow in light, gliding steps, lifting you with strong arms and going back the way it came.


	2. The Winter

You slowly opened your eyes to the light of the morning sun, stretching out on the bed. Pain in your right side flared up, and also at your shoulder, and you lurched to your left side, a violent jerk of the muscles that were now trembling out of control. Your vision tunnelled, the edges and corners of the room blacking. Spots dancing in front of your eyes and head swimming, you took care to breathe slowly and deeply, waiting for the pain to subside.

As your vision cleared once again, you noticed that the room that you were in - and the bed you were on - wasn't yours at all, neither that at your hideout, neither that in the Green Dragon. This room was spacious but scarcely furnished, and dust that was stirred up when you woke was still swirling in the air, slowly setting back on the bedcover. It must've been rarely used, if ever.

You tried to settle on your back to alleviate some of the tension that was stretching your side.

Gradually you became aware of the sound of heavy steps on stairs, the wood creaking under the person coming upwards. You wondered who was coming and why did they bring you here - for that matter, you wondered what kind of wounds you sustained that caused such pain that remained, still, a pounding echo in the back of your mind.

And when the source of the footsteps entered the room, it was immediately clear that you were enemies. He, of course, did not say it, but his Assassin robes gave away his allegiances - now the only question that remained was whether he knew who or what you were.

*

Ratonhnhaké:ton woke to the sound of screaming. It was still night, the sky visibly darkening once more, just before dawn. He sat up in his bed, listening.

The woman he'd brought back had a bullet graze on her side, and a deep cut across her shoulder and collarbone - both were inflamed now, and both would leave heavy scars. He knew that when he first laid eyes on those wounds. He knew how to clean and stitch skin back together - nevertheless, he sent for doctor White to come and inspect them. The doctor said much the same thing, that it would not heal nicely, when he left.

The woman never woke, lying flat and heavy in the bed he'd haphazardly prepared for her, covered in bandages, breathing faintly under the heavy duvet.

He sat still for a long while, listening to the creaking and wailing of the manor as it stood against the harsh winter wind. When another strangled cry came, he swung his legs decisively to the floor, running a hand through his unruly black hair. There was no point in saving her from the Templars if he let her die now in agony - with that in mind, he pulled on a robe over his nightshirt and went over to the room he'd brought her to.

Her bandages were soaked with red, rapidly darkening blood, and her face was contorted in pain, beads of sweat rolling down the arch of her brow.

Ratonhnhaké:ton opened the crate dr. White left beside a bucket of water, and pulled out fresh lint for new bandages. After he was done tightly wrapping them around the unconscious woman, he submerged a piece of cloth in the bucket of water, and carefully cleaned her face before placing the cloth on her forehead, then returned to sleep.

In the morning, all the while dressing in his robes and shaving with his kinfe, his thoughts never left the unknown woman in the upstairs bedroom. After having eaten a piece of bread for breakfast, he turned for the stairs and went to make sure she was healing - or, at the very least that she wasn't in as much pain as before.

Much to his surprise, though, he found her awake, struggling to breathe evenly, staring up at him with unfocused eyes.

He briefly wondered at the proper thing to say, before he asked, "How are you feeling?"

She sucked in a breath, almost couching  at the sensation of the air rushing to her lungs. She croaked to clear her throat.

"It-it hurts" she struggled to get out the words.

"Those are serious wounds" he warned her. "What is your name?" He asked. After she told her, he followed with "Do you know who did this to you?"

"Yeah" she breathed. "Bit of a stuck-up British bastard, that one."

Ratonhnhaké:ton startled a little at the turn of phrase, but it was clear nonetheless who she was referring to: Haytham Kenway.

He was right in assuming that it was a Templar henchman he'd killed with an arrow through the skull.

"Do you have need for anything?" He asked, already stepping out of the room, only his shoulders and face turned towards his unfortunate guest.

"Revenge" she answered simply. "I need to take revenge."

He nodded, the movement a short, solemn one; he understood the thirst for revenge all too well - he understood the deep-seated hatred of the Templars all too well.

*

You stilled your rapidly beating heart at great efforts - even the faint image of Haytham Kenway, stirring in your memories, caused bubbling, boiling, seething white-hot hatred to spill over all of you, leaving you screaming for vengeance.

Of course, you weren't in the condition to execute your vengeance. You weren't in any condition to walk, to run, to fight. You were helpless, running short of breath after turning in the bed from one side to another.

And the fact that a bloody Assassin found you and took pity on you! The sworn enemies of the Order!

And, by the looks of it, he wasn't any apprentice, either - you were now residing in the famous Davenport Homestead, inherited by the Native boy, heir to the old - and thankfully already dead - Mentor.

You knew that Haytham Kenway, the bastard, worked hard to cripple the Assassin Brotherhood, if not to eradicate it; he even went as far as actually crippling the old mentor. He succeeded, for the most part, as the Brotherhood was non-existent by this point. If the Native, the savage was the best they got left, you only needed to play along until you were completely healthy again. And when that day would come, you would slice the throat of the Assassin, right along with the throat of your so-called Grand Master, you vowed.

What scorched most was the ingenuity of Kenway's plan. Lull the unnamed, faceless street girl to him, with sweet words and sweeter hands, send her on increasingly important errands, assassinations and infiltrations - but then she knew too much, she saw so much, she showed potential, and she suddenly became dangerous to them. You suddenly became dangerous to them. And they sent another unnamed, faceless henchman to end you.

You wondered how many of your killings were, in fact, suffering the same fate as you. The only difference was that you, by the never-ending irony of life, were saved, thus being granted the chance of taking revenge for yourself and for all those before you who died the same way you did not.

 

The next three days passed in a feverish haze, as your wounds inflamed then slowly started to heal. You only had vague, fogged memories of people coming and going; a doctor, the savage - the Assassin -, occasionally one or two women who came to wash you down.

On the third day, when you jolted awake again, for the umpteenth time that night, you opened your eyes to the Assassin standing at the window of your room, looking out of what was undoubtedly a sparkling winter landscape. The pale dawn light illuminated his form, the outlines of his robes, his high cheekbones and the luscious black hair that was pulled back into a tail.

You wanted to speak, to mock him, to send him away, but only coughs spilt out of your mouth. He turned abruptly, crossing the room with two long steps, and helped you to a sitting position to make it easier to breathe.

You haven't been sitting up in almost a week. The change felt wonderful. It did make it easier to breathe as well, but the fact that the Assassin left his hand flat on your back to support you bothered you immensely. You waved a hand to send him off, and he understood the message, but remained crouched beside the bed.

"I came to say goodbye" he spoke, his voice soft as velvet, his tones reverberating deep in his chest. "I'm leaving for a week--Prudence will take good care of you." He gestured towards the door, where a familiar woman stood - you remembered her, the darkness of her skin folding into an immense blackness, from your feverish haze. Now, though, as you looked at her, she was just an ordinary black woman, clasping her hands in front of her apron. There wasn't any indication of the pressing, empty void around her. You nodded meekly; it was expected from the poor victim of the Templars, after all, to take everything at face value. Then, in a flash, the Assassin was gone, and only the swishing of his robes lingered after.

 

He was right: Prudence did take good care of you. She minded every little detail, every little sigh of yours, the curve in your lips as your side started to ache. She was, however, ruthless in her own way; she rarely let you sit in the armchair by yourself, and she almost never let you try walking. By the end of the week you were tired of sitting around, you felt like you could run, like you could fly - only to be harshly brought back down by a distant pulling where your wounds were now scarring. Even so, you were able to walk, albeit slowly, from one corner of your room to another. And if you could've walked more, you never knew; Prudence wouldn't have let you walk more all at once.

The day that marked the Assassin's return went by as every other did, and you knew little of his whereabouts. Of course, the residents here wouldn't tell you - who do you even think you are to ask, they'd think. Still, the Native made an effort to stop by every now and then, asking about your healing process or this and that about your life before, and you knew he was at least suspicious. Those entire conversations reeked of Assassin interrogation techniques, and you were left scowling every time.

On the other hand, they gave you an excellent chance to peek into what was left of the Colonial Brotherhood. An excellent chance to strike a blow to the Assassins on your way to Haytham Kenway.

In your heart, you were still whole-heartedly agreeing with the Templars. It hurt; you had thought you found a home, only to be forcibly ejected, hunted down and killed. Sometimes, you wondered about death - if you had been killed, you would have been spared the excruciating thoughts, the dulling, but never absent pain, the pity an Assassin of all people took on you.

 

So you waited for the next visit.

The Native didn't come back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> wow do i suck at long chapters


	3. The Spring

The snow was already watered, crumbling under its own weight, melting under the first rays of the mellow spring sun. The very first flowers peeked out from between remaining heaps of snow, and birds were already flying with twigs in their beaks, busy readying their nests for the oncoming spring.

Ratonhnhaké:ton stepped onto familiar lands, onto a familiar path winding its way down between rocks into the valley where snow was still present; he was finally coming home. He kept his right arm firmly wound around his abdomen and side, holding a bulky bandage in place under his Assassin robes, now stained red and mottled brown. This mission - not a simple assassination contract, because this was for himself, his mother, and for his village - had taken its toll on him. It wasn't only the deep stab wound that slowed his steps, its weight bearing down on his shoulders; it was also the feelings of inadequacy, of helplessness, the feeling of being only but a speck of dust against the great forces that moved this Earth. He knew he couldn't waver, because he was the only one left standing against the great Templar Order; he knew that if not for him, true justice can never be served and liberty can never be achieved. So he tore his undershirt, stilled the bleeding, wrapped himself as best he could, and started towards the Homestead.

Upon arrival, he hadn't bothered sending for Doctor White, as he himself was capable of stitching the skin over his wound together. It was best if Doctor White could give his undivided attention to the Homestead residents  - who have grown into quite a populous town in the last few years - and the woman. So he sat on a stool in the basement, and pulled his skin together, the tugging of thread a minuscule prickling compared to the severity of the original wound. He tied it off, then put and wrapped clean bandages over the wound, under his father's watchful, oil-painted gaze. He pulled on his robes and left, not sparing even a single glance for his father.

As he stepped out of the manor to tend to the horse he'd left tethered but still saddled, he noticed the woman walking with Prudence on the road leading up to the house. Prudence had her hands clasped together in front, her head was bowed as she was listening to something the woman was saying. The woman was walking without effort, there was only a hint of lilting, only a slight falter in her steps - a peculiar indicator of limping that once had been there, but was now only a shadow of wounds sustained, only a memory. Ratonhnhaké:ton spent a few seconds watching them, feeling pride and warmth bubble up in his chest at the sight of the woman he'd saved, at someone who has been saved from the grip of the Templars. He nodded once, firmly, as if to reassure himself, then turned his attention back to his horse.

*

They say that darkness is not a presence itself, only the absence of light, as they say that silence is but the absence of sound. All those who believe that have clearly never experienced the black, broiling presence of the dark need for revenge.

This you knew without uncertainty. The pressing, demanding reality of your rage were the farthest from absence - and, upon realising them, they'd be more than a simple presence, they would become a fact.

This was what kept you going. This was what kept you sane, what kept you talking with Prudence even though the woman was bleak and boring. This was what kept your patience and what helped keep your composure when you caught a glimpse of the Assassin as he disappeared around the corner of the manor. Finally, the time for questions arrived - no doubt he will visit you, you reasoned, his bleeding heart can't wait to reassure you that he'd have come, had he been able to. Perfect. Morons with hearts too large for their chests made the easiest targets.

Prudence, as expected, reminded you that this much walking was enough for the day. You rolled your eyes - for all she wanted the best for you, she was a nuisance, especially when she got in the way of your plans. But, seeing as you did exert yourself with the walk, and a dull, throbbing ache settled in your side, you simply nodded and followed her back into the manor. She'd helped you change into bed-clothes, and she covered your legs with the dusty comforter, fluffing a pillow to help you sit. She even smoothed a hand over your forehead, a strangely motherly gesture you hadn't experienced since you were a small child. Something tugged at your heartstrings, and you were quick to shut the blossoming emotion down and away.

If there was something in this whole wide world you didn't need, it was the affection of others. You had always been alone, and it wasn't going to change now.

 

The doctor - Doctor White, as you recalled - stopped by sometime later, to examine your freshly healed wounds. The skin over them was stretched taut, still pink, but heavy, white scar tissue started to knot itself back over your side and shoulder. It wouldn't be pretty when it healed completely, but you didn't need it to be, so you nodded to the doctor when he left, a small thanks for his efforts. After all, it wasn't his fault that you have been betrayed.

Whose fault was it, really? Yours? You were but a victim.

The Order's? They hadn't officially welcomed you into their fold, and it wasn't surprising that they were acting in their best interests.

The Assassins'? There wasn't much left of them, and if all of them ran around with that damned love for humanity, it was hard to imagine they'd actively go out of their way to do harm. Oh, they killed people, for sure, but who did they kill? Templars and associates. They'd have been sure to kill you too, but the winds have changed, and suddenly, they were the ones to save you.

If Templars kept killing Assassins, and Assassins kept killing Templars, innocent lives would be inevitably caught in the crossfire. They both had to go, otherwise the killing would never stop. And this gave you new determination, hardened into steel, to include the Native in your plan for revenge. You toyed with the thought of making him help you take down the Order, just to kill him afterwards - but did that not make you even less than the back-stabbing Haytham Kenway? Did that not make you even more despicable?

You shook the thoughts away. Revenge was needed; and you were ready to use any means necessary to execute it.

 

Soon enough, as expected, you heard the quiet-heavy footsteps on the stairs, and after a brisk knock and a meek "come in" from you, the Assassin stepped into the room. He looked tired - and you wondered just when did you learn to tell that only from a glimpse.

He clasped his hands in front, as if he was not quite sure what to say. You pushed yourself up to sit straight and cleared your throat.

"I don't recall you telling me your name" you said. Your tone was a tad cold and calculating; a name was needed, after all, if he was to be the instrument of the Templars' demise.

"Connor. My name is Connor."

Connor, then. Not what you'd expected, really, with that golden, sun-kissed skin and high cheekbones, but who were you to judge, really? It fit the man, somehow, the steady, soothing but brisk attitude, the firm morals. 

"Connor" you said, and the name rolled off your tongue with surprising ease, leaving an unknown sweetness behind. "I think I haven't thanked you yet." There - a simple thanks, this, too, calculated precisely to get closer.

He nodded, only an inclination of his head, his dark eyes never leaving yours. "It is of no problem."

"Why don't you sit?" You gestured to the empty - and dusty - chaise in the room. He nodded again, and lowered himself into it with fluid grace, one that told legends about his knowledge of his body. There was also a flicker of the barest expressions, a glimspe you caught around his eyes that told about well-concealed pain. You noticed his Assassin robes were stained brown.

"How are you feeling?" He asked, the turn of phrase achingly familiar from all of his visits.

"Better, thank you." You closed your eyes a little. "Prudence has helped me a lot."

"I am pleased to hear that."

The conversation was stilted, painfully so, but this time, it served a purpose, and you were willing to grit your teeth and bear with it.

"Connor, I--" you swallowed, carefully painting the image of distress over your features. "I'd like to know more about the Templars."

He nodded, again, the boiling rage visible in the burn of his eyes and the hard set of his jaw. That was good - it gave you more leverage to work with.

 

After that, his visits seemed to have redoubled, both in length and frequency, and all were peppered with the Assassin propaganda he was spewing. The underlying cynicism of a phrase once uttered, 'everything is permitted' made you wonder - which was the worse group really? The Templars who justified killing folks with the will to ensure a greater world order, or the Assassins, who justified killing people with an empty maxim, who killed just because they could?

Amongst the nonsensical blabbering, though, there seemed to be bits and pieces of useful information. And if you were haunted by nightmares of Charles Lee's ugly sneer and Haytham Kenway's hauteur, well - you were willing to grit your teeth and bear with that, too. The need for vengeance had overridden everything else.

*

Ratonhnhaké:ton wondered, sometimes, at the horrors this woman must have faced at the hands of the Templars. She spoke with a deep-seated hatred, and she often stumbled over words - she also flinched at the names of some.

He'd done the right thing, he was sure now. She was still guarded, not willing to share much about herself, but she certainly wasn't asked to. If someone, Ratonhnhaké:ton understood the horror that Templars wrought.

 

Without notice, March and then April ran by, chased by the sweet laughter of May and the scent of blossoming flowers. The woman was well enough by now that she could move freely at her leisure, although Ratonhnhaké:ton reminded her that it was easy to get lost in the woods surrounding the manor.

One morning, as the pale indigo sky was still stretching itself over the land, she sought him out. This was unusual, but something in the look in her eyes told him to still his tongue.

"I want you to train me to be an Assassin."


End file.
